The Woman Returns
by Corelli Sonatas
Summary: EPILOGUE is here! Opaque and compelling as she always is, The Woman returns with a request for dinner with - and a favour of - our favourite consulting detective. But with James Moriarty 'back from the dead', what assurance does Sherlock and Irene have that London - and that they - will be fine?
1. The Text Message

"John, would you get Sherlock?" Mary Watson averted her vision from the cellular telephone to scan her living room for her husband. John was not there; but then she heard his voice answer from the kitchen: "Would you please say that again, Mary? Sherlock's got an ear-piercing sound blasting out of the laptop!"

Mary detected a blunt retort from Sherlock: "Oh, you must play your music to the first bar all the time, eh, John? For heaven's sake, this is important!"

"Yeah, well, solving crimes might not be as important to me as maintaining my eardrums -"

"All right, John," Mary interrupted, a smile developing on her lips. "Can you ask Sherlock to come in here? I have a surprise for him."

At once, the slim and rather awkward figure that was Sherlock Holmes appeared in the doorframe. "We need to talk. I have an old friend begging for you." Mary smiled slyly, knowing that she had, in fact, caused the King of Deduction to stumble in wonder. "Come on, then," she prompted him, after a moment of the bleakest staring contest between the two of them. "Let's go outside to discuss it."

When Mary had left him behind and shut the front door behind her, Sherlock cocked his head in amusement. "Well, count on Mary Watson to make me trip," he announced. "John, I'll be back soon. That is, probably in a day or two. Depending on this mysterious -"

John had poked his head through the doorframe that divided the kitchen from the living room. "What? Is Mary up to something?" The doctor's face became grave as he demanded, "You had better keep an eye on her; not only is she pregnant, she's -"

"A woman with a curious history, I know," assured Sherlock, nodding his head. He looked apprehensively at the front door. It was a normal summer day: the usual intensity from the sun, the mild breeze shaking the stubborn leaves back and forth, the active city streets adjacent to the Watson residence. But Sherlock knew that something was going to alter this day: count on the slightest bit of information from Mary to put a spin on his boring day. Which was to Sherlock - the man who hated dullness, the consultant detective who thirsted to experience crises - a good thing.

He needed not walk four meters outside of the flat before he practically bumped into Mary, who aimlessly watched the ongoing traffic on the streets of London. "Sorry," he apologised, hands curled in small fists as he recoiled from the woman childishly. She smiled at him, in that too-good-to-be-true form that she always pulled on him. _I still wonder how she managed to be so friendly with me so quickly,_ he thought in admiration. Though it was admiration on a low scale; for Sherlock Holmes knew not to exhibit any signs of open approval or appreciation. It was too risky.

"I thought it would be crazy enough an atmosphere to tell you the news," declared Mary, sighing as taxi after bus after car covered the square meters across the way. "I've had a message from someone whom I believe you know to be The Woman."

His pupils expanded instantly, and his senses became suddenly aroused. "How do you know her?" he automatically questioned, giving Mary the strangest look.

She put a hand on her stomach and bit her lip. "My…history is full of encounters, Sherlock. I've met the most amazing people, and I have also come into contact with the most devious of sorts. But Irene was one of those people who always puzzled me." She grinned as she stopped momentarily to observe Sherlock's transforming face. "I take it she and you were…?"

"_Not_ what you think we were, and will never be," Sherlock quickly told her. He was half lying, however, and Mary could tell it. But she wouldn't bother him about it.

"Anyway, she wants to see you."

"When?"

"Today, four o'clock."

"Where?"

"Well, she mentioned this name…" Mary pulled out her camera phone and showed him the series of messages. Sherlock searched for a location; suddenly, he found it. _"This_ is where she is?" He sounded almost disgusted as he pointed his index finger at the screen. Mary nodded. "She wants it to be a very private thing."

"Why didn't she text me?" asked Sherlock, his eyebrows furrowed. "Unless… Has she been on the run lately?"

"I dunno," confessed Mary, "but she's quite informed. She's aware that your phone's been confiscated, you know."

"Count on The Woman to be one step ahead of everyone else," mused Sherlock quietly. There had been a softness to his voice, as he had temporarily recalled his…interactions…with Irene Adler years prior. But then the arrogant man corrected his previous statement: "At least, she's ahead of everyone _except_ me."

Mary chuckled. "Well, you had better give me your answer. Will you go?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm going! I feel like I'm responsible for her actions. I _did_ spare her life, after all." He winked at Mary, whom he instantly assumed had already been told of that tactful event. "I'll leave now."

When Mary had reentered the flat, Sherlock straightened his scarf (which he insisted on wearing, despite the season) and buttoned his coat. It was time for a reunion, and it was perhaps the only thing that could beat the detective's alternate task in excitement.

Moriarty had returned from the land of the dead, but The Woman was _still_ "dead", which made for a much more interesting alternative case to take. And Sherlock was to have an early dinner with her.

What a fun time for him.


	2. The Prison and the Pub

"You came."

"To be quite honest, I don't know why. A prison? What have you done this time?"

Sherlock examined everything but The Woman: the stone ground, the iron bars, the brick walls. When at last his eyes reached her figure, Irene Adler gave him a response. "I may be known to misbehave, Mr. Holmes, but I'm better than that - this time around, that is." She dangled her arm, and out from the sleeve of her silk blouse came a key.

Sherlock's eyes were fixed upon the tiny object, though his interest was not at all in the key itself. "I thought we were having dinner," he admitted. His eyelids raised and fell, in the effort to evoke some sort of explanation from The Woman. _She's never been very good at telling what's going on,_ he thought afterward.

She positioned the key inside of the prison-cell door's keyhole, which caused her to reach out rather awkwardly toward Sherlock, who stood on the other side of the bars. "Oh, we _are_ having dinner," she assured him, sneaking in one of her sly grins that had the habit of stunning the consultant detective. "My question is this: where shall we go?"

Sherlock would not agree to play her game. "Why are you here? You summon me to this nasty place for what: entertainment? Surely there is -"

"But there _is_ an explanation, Mr. Holmes," she whispered. Irene held her finger to her lips, reminding him, "You and I are no ordinary pair, my dear. Even a location such as this cannot be entirely safe for us."

_So it was a safety precaution?_ guessed the man finally, frustrated with his sluggishness at understanding merely _that._ He opened the cell door now, and The Woman slid out of her confinement with ease. "I have my ways to get into prison cells like this, even now with my new identity. The world is one gigantic train, but I am one of the very few who know how to operate it...

"Anyway, how is life on Baker Street?" Irene's silver-blue eyes blinded him for a moment, as she and Sherlock stepped back to let the door close with a _click._

"I...er... Are you going to ask me that now, or shall we wait until we're out of this godforsaken place?"

The Woman locked arms with her companion. "Let us make haste, then."

...

They sat in silence for a while, just making strenuous glances at one another. Irene had chosen a busy pub on the outskirts of London; and while it was safer to be hidden among the masses, Sherlock was consequently feeling claustrophobic.

"Ah," The Woman sighed, reaching for her glass of wine. She pretended not to notice her companion's frustration with the crowds. "At last I can ask: how _is_ everything? You know I thirst for the details. How is Mr. Watson taking life after the big news?"

"You mean the child? Can't shut up about it," explained Sherlock, faking disgust. In actuality, the usually unsentimental man could not help but feel excited about the forthcoming addition to their family. And it was, indeed, _their _family: Mr. and Mrs. Watson and the baby and Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock. _Never mind Mycroft,_ he reasoned in his moment of digression.

But Irene Adler shook her head. "No, what does he think about _Mary?_ She only tells me that he is occasionally cross with her." She reached out across the table and put a hand on Sherlock's outstretched arm. The man tensed at her touch.

"John knows nothing in particular about her past. He has decided to be a gracious - rather than a nosy - spouse. I am sure this surprises you, considering you know all about Mary shooting me...and saving me." He stared at her facial expression, and it responded as he had imagined: pure confusion. She disengaged her hand from his arm and straightened her back.

"So John is a man of respect? Impressive - although he knows nothing about Mary's past, something on which I could certainly enlighten him..." She eyed Sherlock, trying to get him upset. But he was patient with her.

"I presume you have known Mary for many years? Let me guess, you two collided as part of a network. But _you_ are no murderer..." He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the wood of the dining table, and soon their server returned with their meals. "Thank you," acknowledged The Woman in a soft and unrecognisable tone of voice. The server left, whereupon she and Sherlock began to eat.

"It's half past four," announced Sherlock after two minutes of verbal silence. "Why have we congregated so early?"

Irene's mouth was full and her head was down, granting the dinner plate her absolute attention. This irked Sherlock; suddenly, however, he had an epiphany. "Yes!" he exclaimed, practically bouncing up from his chair. The table responded with a _bump,_ alarming only a few of the many nearby customers.

Everything was beginning to make sense to the man whose greatest ally was deduction. "You wanted me to meet you at four, which normally means that the destination is about an hour away. But no, we arrived here within twenty minutes, and will likely leave before five. Which means -" he made quick eye contact with The Woman's admiring blue eyes - "that you have planned more than just dinner for the evening."

She nodded at him, feeling suddenly aroused by his smooth and speedy analysis of the significance of time. "I don't think I can survive the rest of this dinner," she admitted. "You are simply too much for me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I applaud you for -"

"Aha," he stopped her, holding his hand out across the table. "Your clothes: not too fancy, but definitely too informal for a simple dinner with a distant friend. _Friend,"_ he repeated, giving her a suspicious look. He practically watched as her body's pulse quickened its pace, and her pupils dilated within seconds. She had become so vulnerable in his presence - something that The Woman never allowed herself to do - and she caused for Sherlock a moment of puzzlement, as if in the opposite chair a child had just appeared in Irene Adler's place.

"What a funny word, _friend,"_ he told her, folding his hands together. "We call those who live next-door to us _friends,_ but we also consider those whom we visit on the rarest of occasions to be friends. And then there are those who we thought to be nothing _more_ than friends; but over time their minds change, and suddenly these people want to be -"

"Are you making a critical judgement of me, Mr. Holmes?"

"I am only stating that which I have found to be valid among the human species." His countenance had become serious, but hers was incredulous.

"You can be _too_ analytical, you know? Sometimes, dear, the answer derives from mere logic." She smiled now, convincing him even more that he had been poking in the right place for the answer. He wanted now to figure what she had meant by _logic_.

For a minute, they were motionless and soundless. The Woman kept her eyes on his scarf, and she continuously wondered why the man was mad enough to wear the damned navy-blue thing in the summertime.

Meanwhile, Sherlock examined her face. It was not as red as it had been moments previous; Irene Adler never could let her guard down for too long. _That's it!_ he suddenly realised. "The phone," he began. She lifted her head slowly, sensing Sherlock's discernment. Continued he:

"You knew that my phone is under strict surveillance - out of my sight, in fact - but you could have telephoned my flat or John's." He looked at his watch pointlessly. "A woman who wishes to have dinner with a man does not usually instruct someone else to inform the man. Especially not the wife of that man's friend - how awkward that must have been for Mary!" Sherlock chuckled, but it had been the product of nerves: nerves that most commonly come when a woman of the most irresistible nature sits oppositely at the table.

"So?" she prompted him. He was speechless at first, but she added, "You can now be certain that...?"

"That this is a date," he finished monotonously, his eyes frozen with the perfect view of her lips. _What is wrong with me?_ he chastised, a putting a hand to his forehead and rubbing it shamelessly. Irene smiled.

"Years have passed, and you still fall victim to love. Love never fails to paralyse you...which I find to be nothing but advantageous, in my case," she confessed, her gaze pressed upon Sherlock's features: his dark locks of hair, his innocent eyes, his unfailingly smart and attractive appearance. "We have much to talk about, Sherlock. I have quite a lot to ask of you, and I hope that you are that very same man whom I had the pleasure to know so short a time ago."

She reached into her bag, in search of money to pay for the meal. Sherlock let her pay, knowing not to argue or compete with The Woman under any circumstances. And while she placed the payment down on the table, he considered the tiniest clue: _she called me by my first name. I have never heard just "Sherlock" come out of her mouth until today._

As he wondered at this phenomenon, Irene Adler zipped her bag closed and pushed back her seat to rise from the dining table. "All right, dear, let's take a taxi back to my flat."

"You live _nearby?_ Honestly, do you live your life trying to get into trouble?" blurted Sherlock, still seated in his chair. She rolled her eyes.

"Of course I don't live round here. You should know better than to think that; I have _connections,"_ reminded she. Without hesitation, she walked round the table - having to inch past the loud parties surrounding their area - and grabbed Sherlock's arm. "Come on, out of that adorable trance. I know your weaknesses, Sherlock, and I have no problem with utilising them. Are we going?" She offered her hand to him, and he took it without complaint or comment. "Very good, let's leave this madhouse."


	3. The Favour

"Are you very fond of weddings, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock gave her his trademark frown, still as a statue. "You address me formally, once again. Why?"

The Woman's lips curled into an irresistible grin. "So interested are you, _Sherlock, _in the actions of other people. I _do _love that about you: you can be so bold - and so serious - simultaneously. Utterly attractive...and unmistakably sexy. You recall my motto -"

"Thinking," cut in the consulting detective, as if responding like a dog to an owner's commands, "is the new sexy. And I am not so very fond of weddings, Irene, because the last one to which I had the honour of attending resulted in yet another episode of a day at work...and naturally, I performed to the best of my ability, but to be brief: I am not good at the entire 'wedding thing'. My apologies if you were hoping for me to be -" Sherlock broke off, suddenly calculating the probable reasons for his companion's questioning. "_Are you very fond of weddings?" Either she attempts to develop small-talk, or my fellow human being - who happens to be female and rather compelling - has no disguise through which she can ask me about marrying her. That is, she has no _clever_ manner by which to do so._

He chuckled quietly and leaned back into the sofa, which was positioned rather awkwardly at the centre of the living room. What a n_ice flat her "connection" has got,_ mused the young man with sarcasm.

Irene converted the weight of her body to her thighs, on which her elbows now rested to create a contemplating look. Her hands clasped around her cheeks, and for a moment Sherlock believed that a painter sat behind him, pallet-and-easel at the ready to portray this woman. And Irene could be so deceptive; she did, in fact, appear always as a model - since every position into which she molded her features could be mistaken for photograph poses.

"Fear not, Sherlock," continued she; "I have asked you such a question out of curiosity. Perhaps you would enjoy a _smaller_ production, should you ever join another nuptial celebration. What say you?"

"The smaller the better," replied the man, his tone of voice cheerier since he had heard the words "smaller" and "nuptial celebration" in the same sentence. _She is getting quite close to her point of concern on the subject, _inferred he. "And just so you know, I can tell that there is more to your absolutely interesting question than pure curiosity."

Pupils starting to dilate - as Irene's hands slid deliciously onto his lap, punishing him for being so conservative with her thus far - Sherlock trembled as he spoke one last question: "So exactly how would this such information serve your purpose?"

The Woman was patient; her eyes remained opaque enough for her companion to only marvel in their azure colour. "I...have my reasons, Sherlock Holmes. Fancy the details?" Her voice had ended with an almost inaudible, husky flair that had the bachelor cringing with delight. He merely nodded to answer her, whereupon Irene Adler lifted herself from the antique furniture and sat atop the consulting detective's lap, gently.

She commenced: "I have taken a liking to you since first I knew of your existence, and never have I loved someone with such indescribable passion. You give my body the most violent of contractions, Sherlock, even though you only manipulate that larynx of yours that produces such a sexy baritone. It screams 'Sherlock', my dear; and I mean not to embarrass you, poor thing! your face is turning red." Irene shifted cautiously in the man's lap, finding purpose to brush a few of his flyaway strands of hair away from the eyes. Sherlock stared at her attire: char coloured silk that melted into a long skirt at her feet. Her hair was crafted just the way he loved it; The Woman showcased her dark, shiny hair with nothing but the loosest waves towards the ends of the glossy strands.

She dared to continue whilst Sherlock admired her beauty. "You never cease to amaze me. My, what a long time since last we marvelled over one another! Yes, it was a memorable occasion, on which your crafty performance outsmarted the executioners overseas. And though our adventures have been limited, Sherlock, I feel they have been of the utmost intimacy and value; for you have saved my life once, and I daresay I've spared yours during our adventures. So let it be known," she finished, putting a heavy but warm arm around his back: "I love you."

For a moment the two only sat there, sharing bodily warmth in the moderately cool summer evening. Sherlock stroked Irene's hair with rhythm (to which his violin aptitudes could be accredited); then, before The Woman opened her mouth to wonder why this man would not speak, Sherlock imparted his answer:

"Clearly there is but one last confession to be made...and that would be that I love you in kind, Irene Adler. When we first met...well, I should not ponder on that time, since it was its own puzzling era...but I remember your denial of loving me, and that was perhaps the greatest lie I had ever encountered. Remember, my darling, how I felt your pulse on that romantic winter evening? Do you recall how remarkably your heart beat - to keep up with all the chemical changes in your stimulated body - because you felt love for me?"

"I do remember it, and so clearly," whispered The Woman. She caressed the locks of hair on his head to the extent at which her companion closed his eyes in ecstasy. "Shh," she soothed. "Poor _dear; _you appear even more exhausted than you had done years ago, and I had thought that you had been extremely tired _then."_

"But I can feel the exhaustion subsiding, my dearest, now that you are next to me." Sherlock breathed one last breath before he earned the most challenging emotion he had experienced since...when had he _ever_ faced something this mind-blowing?

It was a kiss, and a long one, too: her mouth scoured his so fervently, as if eager to make him feel connected to her in such a way that only intimacy could provide. He allowed her to completely claim him, pressing his chest against her abdomen whilst moaning deeply.

Their lips parted at last. The Woman kept him closer still, inhaling and exhaling in steady pattern. Sherlock, too, committed to this action. "Will you marry me?" he whispered, hoarse though his voice was from the excitement that had stolen away his ability to clear his throat.

Irene was to reply as if the question had been a response to "Do you want me to take you out for dinner?" As they disengaged themselves, The Woman declared, "You will do me that favour, then?"

"Favour?"

"Of course! You will arrange for a vacation, during which time we can elope and enjoy our first weeks together as husband and wife." She smiled at Sherlock, and he could only repeat the gesture.

"Well, if that's all this 'favor' implies..." He got up from the sofa - with the help of his new fiancé - and the two walked out of the living room quietly. Sherlock stopped before they had approached the entryway. "When shall this happen? I haven't the slightest intention to let Moriarty interfere, of course, but -"

The Woman laid a firm but loving hand on his arm and found the young man's pulse. "When I said 'favour' I meant not that you had to do all the work. I will be around, so long as you don't make fun of me acting so casually."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Very well, then. I suppose John and Mary can witness our wedding, but perhaps that is not a grand idea; Mary is due in six months, correct?"

Sherlock had been too caught up in the prospect of marriage to the wonderful young woman beside him, and had therefore forgotten to hear her speech. "Hmm? What? Oh! yes, Mary is due in about five and a half months, if I've correctly deduced the conception date."

Irene sighed. "My dear, you mustn't figure out _every_ little thing about this world! Some things are private."

"I know," admitted Sherlock with a guilty grin. "I mustn't get in the way with family business. Everyone knows how well I did with _that_ on the day of John and Mary's wedding," he added.

Smiling sadly, The Woman assured him, "Don't worry, dear. Know that _I_ appreciate your thirst for full discernment. Perhaps someday we might have our own little ones to whom we will teach such deduction as you enjoy."

The young man felt as if he'd tasted something bitter. "Ah well! Enough emotional talk for one night; good night, Irene. I imagine I'll hear from you soon, when you are hopefully far away from trouble."

The Woman planted a kiss on Sherlock's soft cheek. "You know I won't stay out of trouble, dear."


	4. John in Denial

John was growing impatient with Sherlock. He had taken his morning off from work - upon his friend's sudden request - to have breakfast at 221b Baker Street. And there John Watson was, seated on his favourite sofa in the living room...and Sherlock had only begun his shower. "You had better be quick!" shouted John, out of fear that his strange companion would not hear his voice over the screaming shower.

"You know me, John," came a muffled reply down the hallway. The bathroom door was not entirely shut, which explained the extra loud frequencies emanating through the flat. John did know, rather; Sherlock was nothing but slow when it came to showering, and the veteran soldier knew it best. Even Mrs. Hudson had never understood why John complained so much about Sherlock's inability to perform a simple - and easily short - task, with haste.

"You're damn right, I know you," muttered the frustrated one, tapping his left foot restlessly against the ground. Up it went, and then a _thud_ back down on the disgusting carpet. _I see blood, sweat, and other things I don't even want to think about,_ thought the doctor. Clearly Sherlock had been at it with out-of-labratory experiments, because that lovely display of filth hadn't presented itself on the rug so badly since John had left to live with Mary.

Ten minutes transpired. John examined his watch, wondering whether the food would have mercy on them and still be warm. Mrs. Hudson - naturally - had risen early that morning to cook, upon hearing about John's expected visit. "The bloody food's probably cold," asserted the now-grumpy man to the air surrounding him. Then there was a knock on the door, and a voice:

"Mr. Holmes?"

_Oh, no,_ thought John, _I'm going mad. The Woman is dead..._

Another three knocks put John on his wobbly feet. The breath had been sucked out of his lungs, and yet he dared ask, "Who is it?"

A pause. John sighed. "All right, Mycroft. You had better come in before I tell you off for always -"

"Mr. Watson?" was the interruption from outside the room. "May I come in? All will be explained, I assure you."

"No, it can't be... You... It can't... Sherlock!" The hysterical man hurried down the hallway and stopped at the ajar bathroom door. The water had finished its run as he had approached. "You're going to call me insane, but I -"

"Is someone there? Who is it, John?" Evidently, Sherlock had not the slightest clue as to who the mysterious person was. This made the doctor all the more nervous, whereupon he verified, "You aren't expecting anyone? No one at all?"

"Ugh, let me get it." In seconds the consulting detective appeared before John, towel concealing the majority of his body. "It could be -" he began, only to be interrupted immediately:

"Who? Are you hiding something from me, Sherlock? Because either I'm hallucinating or Irene Adler is at our bloody door!"

Only the minutest response from Sherlock Holmes followed: his eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. "Ah, then I will go to the door. Come with me, John," he added, as if his companion were but a faithful pet.

"Are you out of your mind? Irene's dead! You told me yourself! Have you lost it too, Sherlock, because I think we're both going crazy! How can you even act as if she was never dead?" John's head spun, and for a moment he wished to give Sherlock a good smack on the cheek. But the other man had other plans for the occasion.

"Looks like we won't be having breakfast after all, John," concluded he, not the least bit disappointed as he declared it. "Oh, and by the way, The Woman and I are to be married."

"What...the..._hell?_ Sherlock -"

Before John could commence a series of curses and retorts, Sherlock was off to open the door; and, indeed, it was Irene Adler there to greet them. She stared quietly for a minute at her greeter's figure, so adorable as it was practically _en déshabillé_. "Do remind me to take off that towel sometime, dear," she purred. "Mr. Watson - John, forgive me; since now we can speak with less formality - has Sherlock told you -"

"That you were alive? Why, no, he never did." John was fuming; his breaths were tight and short, and his countenance shone of agitation. "In fact," continued he to The Woman, "when Sherlock told me you two are getting married, he didn't bother to inform me that he wasn't marrying a _corpse!"_

"I'm so sorry, John," apologised the guilty man, sincerely. "I should have taken the chance to tell you sooner. I had meant for this meeting to be the time, but -"

"And how long exactly have you two been plotting behind my back? Not that I care, oh no, since you both seem to be so caught up in another world that nothing like _friends_ seems to appear in your funny little heads!"

Irene gazed at the floor a long time. Sherlock noticed her surrender to the argument, whereupon he confessed to John, "Three weeks. I've kept it a secret from not only you; Mary doesn't know, either -"

"Actually," Irene piped up, "I informed her this morning. Sorry."

"Great! Just wonderful, John Watson in the darkness once again, forgotten and disregarded! I swear, Sherlock, if you both leave this planet one day with news that there are flats for rent on the moon..."

John kicked his favourite chair, only to be in deep pain from the stiffness of it right afterward. The Woman inhaled quietly and put an arm on Sherlock's naked shoulder. "Have a moment alone with him. Don't worry, I'll wait."

"Feel free to use my room if you wish," Sherlock told her, letting Irene wander off while he made his way over to his companion. "I _am_ sorry, John. You'll have to believe me when I confess that I'm no good with weddings or preparations for them. Irene and I wanted to invite you and Mary, if you will -"

"Married? Sherlock, do I need to tell you what that word means?" John had become the authoritative figure within seconds, which was quite a transformation from the status of unaware-child upon which he had stumbled. Sherlock smiled softly and shook his head.

"I love her, John. We had dinner one night three weeks ago and that night, I proposed to her. Marriage is our next adventure; and I've been planning for the ceremony, for the honeymoon..."

Still as a ghost: that was John Watson for the longest time. He could not process the notion that Sherlock Holmes might be getting married, and to The Woman? _She of all people would be fit for a man like him,_ supposed John, _but seriously? Where have I been whilst this change occurred in my friend?_ "I cannot believe you, Sherlock. Nope, not one bit. This is all a trick to make a fool of me. Well, it's working: you and Irene have succeeded in making an idiot -"

"John, this is not a joke. Look here: do you see this ring?" Sherlock moved his right hand over to where his left had been securing the towel and extended his left hand for John. There was, indeed, a golden band on the ring finger; but the consulting detective's companion knew his friend too well to fall for such traps. "This is a setup for your entertainment," muttered John coldly.

Sherlock frowned. "What _can_ I do so that you believe me? John, I promise you that The Woman and I are to be married; there is no joke to it. If Moriarty knew about this, what do you think would happen? Far more danger than last time, and we don't want a reincarnation of two years ago. Do you understand why we've kept this a secret?"

Considering the very good explanation, John resolved to believe it. "On one condition, though," he added afterward, pointing his index finger out in front of him for Sherlock to see. The consulting detective saw the bold soldier and doctor now - no longer the overexcited, abnormal man that had consumed John Watson.

"And that condition might be...?" pressed Sherlock gently.

"That you promise not to invite me to the ceremony," replied the other. A contented smile upon John's face confused Sherlock immensely. "What?"

"Look, Sherlock, all this is giving me a headache, knowing not only that someone who should be dead is, in fact, alive - but that you..._you_...are to be married! Ha! this day will forever haunt me." He left for the kitchen to draw up a glass of juice. Sherlock shook his head and averted his thoughts. _I wonder what Irene is up to,_ he thought curiously.

And so he made his way toward his own bedroom. John exited the building shortly after, sighing heavily once his hand left the doorknob below the "221".

...

"You're far more adorable in that towel," remarked The Woman, trying to ensnare the man opposite her with her seductiveness. He merely buttoned up his smoke-coloured coat and told her:

"Patience is not as difficult as it seems, Irene. We must be married before anything more can happen between us."

"Spoken like a man of virtue," asserted she. "I do look forward to intimate nights, Sherlock. Already I sense the passion within you."

"Clearly, then, I have not done enough to conceal my excitement."

Irene beamed at him, her hands sliding down the sides of his arms. "Clearly not."

Sherlock studied her bright blue eyes. The pupils were dilated, as he expected, but those same two optical lenses betrayed her. "You are worried. What, might I ask, troubles you presently?"

"You got me," she sighed, walking over to the unmade bed and falling back-first onto the messy sheets. "Never have I been more afraid of that man Moriarty, and I worry that he knows I am alive."

"I shouldn't ask how he _could_ know, since the psychopath amazes me that he still lives." Sherlock moved toward the bedroom window; he casually examined the view outside the flat. When nothing of particular peculiarity caught his attention, the man returned to his fiancé's side and took his place beside her. She still lay flat on the bed. "You know you're hard to resist, lying down like that," confessed he, blushing.

The Woman was beside herself with joy. "Lean down, then, and kiss me."

"What about your worries? Shouldn't we talk about Moriarty?" Sherlock refrained from touching her just yet, conveying his seriousness about making Irene feel free from all her concerns. But she smiled and assured him that no, they would not need to discuss that devil of a man any further. "At least, not now," she had whispered; and seconds following, Sherlock leaned forward to enjoin his lips with hers. Every moment of their physical union was sweet, as it was - for now - not quite final.

But soon it would be; _and no one,_ Sherlock swore, _will come between me and Irene Adler._


	5. Figuring Things Out

A buzzing sound brought Sherlock's mind out of its miserable state one morning; he had endured a nightmare, in which Moriarty had taken John and Mary and The Woman away from him.

He slapped the camera phone with his hand, only realising afterward that the action would not silence the alarm. Sherlock cracked open his eyes; the crustiness from a long and much-needed sleep bothered him instantly, whereupon he sprang up in his bed and rubbed his eyes.

Then he had an epiphany: his phone was not supposed to be ringing, as he had not set an alarm at all. "Who's calling me at this dreadful hour?" wondered Sherlock, extending a lazy arm toward the side table. He gripped the electronic device after a moment's search; he had not bothered to look directly at his target, since his mind still focused upon memories from the nightmare. There had been something odd about the whole vision in his head, and it seemed to have sprung to life when he read the texts on his camera phone.

_Irene's gone mad - get here quickly._ Mary Watson

_What the HELL are you doing asleep at noon? Listen to my wife, and hurry over!_ John Watson

_Hello Brother. I hear you're in for it; Moriarty says hello, and hopes you and Irene have a wonderful wedding. _Mycroft Holmes

"You can't be serious," muttered the consulting detective. Now his mind was spinning. What on earth had Irene done? Was Moriarty so informed that he might be near enough to harm her? "Wonderful how it works: having a wretched nightmare only to wake up to another one."

…

He'd decided not to spend the remaining minutes of the twelfth hour by wondering how his life had sprung into the confusing mess it now was; so, by one fifteen in the afternoon, Sherlock Holmes rapped on the door to John Watson's abode.

The war veteran welcomed him with bitter sarcasm. "Well, I suppose my eyes _are_ getting bad. Get in here, you bastard."

Sherlock ignored his friend's bad attitude. "Where's Irene? Who told Moriarty about our engagement, and what the hell is Mycroft thinking?"

John shut the door and smiled sheepishly at his friend. "Okay, you've gone a bit crazier than I've done, and that's not good. What _about_ Moriarty? Oh, and by the way, Irene isn't going crazy We thought it would grab your attention to say so." He pushed Sherlock further into the house, eager to get things moving. "We've got a lot of work to do, so you'd better stop this," added John.

The high-functioning sociopath felt his brain explode as they entered the living room. Molly was there, alongside Lestrade and Anderson; Irene Adler sat in conversation with Mary, whose entire body appeared distressed from both the situation and the child within her. She was the first to notice Sherlock's entrance. "There you are!" exclaimed she, much happier about things than John had been. "Oh, and congratulations to you and Irene!"

"It's about time too, Sherlock," remarked Lestrade from the left side of the room. He, Anderson, and Molly indulged in the comfort of the sofa; Irene and Mary got up from the small set of table and chairs. John returned to his wife's side.

"All right, then," exhaled Sherlock. He was overwhelmed by multiple aspects of the situation, one of them being Irene's comfortable existence in the same room with people who'd thought her dead. "Why have I been summoned as if the house were on fire?"

Molly smiled, rolling her eyes. "How else were we supposed to get you here quickly? Everyone can testify for your sluggish nature, Sherlock."

"But there are grave matters to be discussed, nevertheless," Irene piped up. "Sherlock, dear, come sit down." She motioned toward the chair that she'd just quitted. Her fiancée obeyed quietly, though his mind still thirsted for answers.

At last everyone was settled. The conversation had begun with discussion concerning Irene's worries. "I don't know what might happen, should my identity reveal itself to him." They spoke of Moriarty. Sherlock fought an unusual emotion within him - thick, numerous tears - and informed everyone of Mycroft's text message:

"It's too late," he announced softly. The Woman jerked her head in his direction. "What?" she asked. The blood hardly pumped out of her heart, and her features all turned to stone-white.

"I'm not sure, but all I know is that Mycroft has positioned himself on James Moriarty's side of this battle."

Several faces froze about the room. John's merely stared at Sherlock, dumbfounded. "What," he wondered, slowly making words escape his gritted teeth, "did Mycroft say?"

"Literally, he informed that Moriarty says hello and wishes Irene and me a good wedding. And that 'I'm in for it.' Whatever that implies -"

"Damn," muttered John under his breath. His wife shot him a look of disapproval, and Molly put a hand to her chest. Anderson pondered the news before offering his own ideas.

"We need to locate Mycroft Homes immediately. Even if he _is_ on Moriarty's side, we must confront him for information concerning the consulting criminal's whereabouts."

"There's sense to that," agreed Lestrade, "but I'm not letting you investigate, Sherlock. I want you and Miss Adler here to get as far away from London as possible." He retrieved his camera phone from his pocket and perused the device for several minutes. Meanwhile Irene held tightly onto Sherlock's hands. "Where shall we go?"

"Wait," Sherlock stopped her. He looked back at Lestrade with wonder. "Are you serious about this? We are to hop on a plane to some place like North America?"

"Exactly," replied an occupied Lestrade with certainty. "Ah, here: look at this; I've found two tickets for a flight to New York. Shall I book it?"

"Now hold on," exclaimed John Watson, rising from his chair and retaining hold of his wife's hand. "You want Sherlock - the absolute best detective we've got - to leave the country for a month, while Moriarty takes advantage of his adversary's absence to set fire to this goddamn city!"

Molly was furious by the sudden vulgarity. "Calm down! Of course I agree, John, but let's be a bit more civilised about all this -"

"Oh, Molly, so like you to -"

"John!" shouted Mary and Sherlock in unison. The room remained in silence until Anderson spoke once more:

"I see why you might want the newlyweds far away from here, Lestrade…"

"We're not married yet," blurted Sherlock irritably. He kept composed whilst Anderson proceeded.

"However, I imagine Moriarty will want to take his business to America if Sherlock and Miss Adler go there. It could become international conflict."

The more Anderson's logic sank into everyone's thoughts, the more Sherlock wished he'd checked Moriarty's seemingly dead body before jumping off that building. Suddenly The Woman stood in front of the group, intending to confess that she was at fault. "If I hadn't summoned for Sherlock that one evening, we might not have had such a troublesome situation. I am sorry."

"Nobody blames you, Miss Adler," Lestrade explained. "I'm just sorry that this city has to endure yet another era of Moriarty-destruction."

"But can't it be good that Mycroft has submitted to James Moriarty?" Mary questioned from across the room. She bit her lip - as her condition had become far more burdensome on her body - and continued when she had everyone's attention. "I mean, we can offer something to him in exchange for his loyalty. We all know how much he treasures information, and Irene has plenty of that." She glanced quickly at her friend before concluding, "I have confidence that we can not only return Mycroft to our side, but we can also get him to put an end to Moriarty."

John was having trouble with the prospect of regaining Mycroft to their side. "I'm not sure Sherlock's brother will gladly change his mind," declared he. "Isn't Mycroft always after the powerful? He _craves_ power, and Moriarty has that. I'm sorry to say it, but we've got to think of something else." John had recently sat back down, and so he gently pulled on Mary's arm to settle her in her seat once again. She acted accordingly, but a frown remained across her face. She was greatly troubled by how things had transpired, and John knew it better than anyone.

"Anyway," Sherlock started, "the first thing we need to do is to secure all parts of London. Lestrade, can you have your men round the city by tonight? We can't let Moriarty have his way this time. Meanwhile, Irene and I will discuss our options. John, if you don't mind, I'd like to move Mrs. Hudson into your home temporarily."

"Sherlock -" John protested.

"After all, Baker Street is infamous for being a twenty-four-hour crime scene. You don't mind, do you, Mary?"

"No, but -"

"Very good then. Lestrade, you know what to do. Anderson, listen to your boss and I'll love you forever. And Molly, stay alert. Do you have a new boyfriend?"

Molly was taken aback by the out-of-the-blue question. "Yes; why?"

"Do you trust him?" Sherlock caught Irene's facial expression. She stared admiringly at him, and he couldn't wait for a moment to be alone with her. "Molly?" he urged when the other young woman would not respond. Molly struggled for the right words.

"Er…yes, I think."

Sherlock shook his head. "You must be certain that he's trustworthy. I'm sorry, but I can't trust your boyfriends immediately. You know what I mean."

Molly glared at the consulting detective but spoke nothing in return. She collected her things and sat up from the sofa. She, Lestrade, and Anderson made their way to leave the house.

"No more sleeping in, Sherlock," chastised Lestrade. "We need you now more than ever. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Watson!" He waved to the hospitable couple and descended the porch stairs. When at last Sherlock turned back to face the interior of the house, Mary's arms were crossed and her face glowered at him. "What?" asked he innocently. "Have I done wrong, Mary? Are my plans not good enough in the sight of someone with such an interesting past as yours?"

The pregnant woman was not in the mood to answer Sherlock. John covered for her: "Let's call it an afternoon, then? Bring Mrs. Hudson over before five, and we'll have her room all ready. I apologise in advance; she'll be sleeping in the baby's nursery. Lots of rattles and toys." He grinned when Sherlock stared blankly back at his friend. "You're a funny one, Sherlock Holmes. Good-bye to you two, and good luck!"

"With what?" Irene asked slyly. "It's not as if we'll be handing ourselves over to Mycroft." She nudged Sherlock, and he had the feeling that she was not joking.


	6. Failed Negotiations

"So we're paying your big brother a visit after all?"

"Indeed, we are," answered Sherlock excitedly. Irene figured her fiancee was only this energetic about the entire thing because she accompanied him; but for that she could not blame him. After all, it had been years since they'd last solved one of Moriarty's puzzles.

She had to jog in order to keep up with the consulting detective. They made their way past several streets of London in record time, and inevitably they caught the attention of passersby. "I'm not sure how happy Mycroft will be to see you, Sherlock Holmes." The Woman had finally caught onto Sherlock's arm, and she nestled her hand into his.

He stopped briefly to kiss her. "Of course he won't want to see me. But I'm bringing you, and in _you_ he will delight to meet." Sherlock flashed a childish grin at her, whereupon she jostled him playfully and pulled on his hand. "Let's hurry, then," she decided.

...

At sunset they arrived at the bulky, unattractive warehouse that belonged to Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock had always mocked the property - even while he himself owned no piece of land exclusively - and Irene loved this. "Brotherly animosity," she sighed as Sherlock studied the front door to the warehouse rather unhappily. "Who would have thought?"

The consulting detective held the doorbell down for ten seconds, causing an annoying, shrill frequency. "Who would have thought what?" he asked The Woman. She only extended her arm and pointed to the doorbell.

"Who would have known that you - Sherlock Holmes, perhaps the smartest man of the era - hold a childhood grudge against your brother to this day?" The door opened automatically, and a monotonous voice pronounced, "Enter. Please wait for an assistant to direct you to Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Thank you."

Irene laughed at Sherlock's face. He was spinning in circles, fascinated at the updated gadgets and the appearance of his brother's place. "How long _has_ it been since I last set foot in this godforsaken warehouse? It's a complete disgrace to human innovation!" He rushed over to the security cameras and smirked. "Look at this, Irene. He must think he's a celebrity, stacking all these surveillance cameras -"

"A different sort of celebrity than the ones _you're_ used to, Sherlock."

The Woman stared at Sherlock; Mycroft was very close behind her. She inched forward to take her place beside her fiancee.

"Ah, Miss Adler," continued Mycroft, "I'm surprised that you've actually decided to surrender to Sherlock's strange ways of life. But I commend you for your bravery; _that_ is admirable, no doubt."

Irene finally turned to get a good look at Sherlock's brother. "Mr. Holmes," she acknowledged, "it's curious how highly you think of me, when James Moriarty has likely required you to kill me."

"Actually, I beg to differ," Mycroft countered. "I am no appraiser of women who sell themselves into trouble round the globe; neither am I very fond of women like you...who are accustomed to vast amounts of _power."_ He smiled knowingly at her, but she returned the gesture. Mycroft redirected his attention to his brother and frowned. "What do _you_ want?"

"See, I told you," The Woman whispered to Sherlock. Myroft ignored her and reached into his pocket for his camera phone. Sherlock found it appropriate to tease him. "Are you frightened, Mycroft, that you finally have a woman in this place but haven't the tiniest drop of coffee to offer her?" Irene covered her mouth, resisting the urge to burst into laughter.

Naturally Mycroft was not the slightest bit amused. "No, Brother; in fact, I'd figured you would come sooner or later, so Miss Adler can have _your_ cup. Everything's upstairs, handcuffs and all. Please don't be disobedient." He motioned to the dark staircase on their right. "Come on, no lingering."

The Woman's nerves had only now begun to bother her. She remained at Sherlock's side the entire way to Mycroft's office upstairs; her fiancee offered her his hand before they entered the room that was their destination. _Everything will be all right_, she thought positively. _I can tear apart Mycroft's loyalty to Moriarty; I just need to take advantage of his weakness: Sherlock._

...

"An offer? Seldom do my own prisoners have much to _offer_ me at all," remarked Mycroft haughtily. Irene's mouth still remained open; she had not finished negotiating.

"I offer you power, Mr. Holmes. Far more power than can result from an unstable loyalty to James Moriarty, I can assure you."

"Where is your camera phone?"

"Not telling." Mycroft grunted out of frustration.

Sherlock, meanwhile, examined the trinkets on his brother's desk with rapt attention. Some of the objects moved; others sat boringly still, and yet the consulting detective was so bored himself that he'd resolved to annoy Mycroft with his lack of care toward the situation at hand.

And so it was no surprise at all when the older of the two sighed heavily and admonished the younger. "Honestly, Brother, do you _still_ not know what it means to be a 'patient little boy'? Goodness," he huffed, returning to Irene with the countenance of an irked child. "Now, where were we?"

"I have access to every morsel of information that you could possibly imagine, Mr. Holmes," proceeded Irene. Her eyes sparkled as she explained her life's work to him: "Document after document, photograph after recording... It's calling for you. I am willing to hand a million pounds' worth of it."

"And what do you want from me, my dear?" Mycroft leaned forward with the ugliest stare into her pure, glossy eyes. "If you're trying to bring me back to Sherlock's side, I tell you that nothing you do will work such a miracle as that." He pointed to his brother with a disgusted look. "I'm finished with him, and so is Moriarty.

"What? Does that surprise you?" He frowned at The Woman and leaned back into his seat.

Sherlock had perked up at these last few sentences. "Why have you chained us up like animals, then? For God's sake, Mycroft, make up your mind!" He violently wriggled in his chair, knowing too well that his actions would not free him. _I'm exhausted by my brother's mercuriality,_ thought he.

"If we are of no importance to you or to James," Irene wondered, "why -"

Biting his lip, Mycroft attempted to contain his anger through bitter sarcasm."Congratulations, Sherlock Holmes! You've chosen the perfect woman to become your wife; she's just as narrow-minded as you. Fools! you think Moriarty and I want England's most-unwanteds tripping all round the country?" He arose from his chair and jammed his finger into buttons on the adjacent wall._ "Someone_ has to contain you two, after all. It's dinnertime; the guards will keep watch while I'm gone."

This frustrated Sherlock beyond containment. "How lovely, Mycroft! Did you hear that, Irene: my brother's got his own royal guard! I didn't know he was crowned King of England!"

"Shut up, Sherlock," came the chastisement. "You had better behave. Moriarty's coming tomorrow to make sure that I've caught you and Miss Adler. I suggest you use the hairbrush in the drawer; James talks for _hours_ about your hair." Mycroft delicately closed the door, beside himself with pleasure. In seconds the King was gone.

Irene manoeuvred her chair so that she could face Sherlock directly. "Sorry. I thought I could undo his adamance..." She smiled at him; and, for some reason, she felt no fear for them. "We'll get ourselves out of here," promised she. "One way or another."

Deep in contemplation, Sherlock stared at the window across the room. He wondered what James Moriarty would do when he saw them at his disposal. _That will be dangerous... The man's a time-bomb, after all._

The consulting detective averted his gaze to The Woman. "Moriarty may be an unpredictable man...but you're an unpredictable woman." He examined his fiance from top to bottom, whereupon she asked curiously:

"And what is that supposed to mean? Do I have some special power with which I could snap my fingers and turn James Moriarty into a frog?"

This made Sherlock gleam with pride. "Ah, Irene Adler - and soon to be Irene Holmes - how much I love you..."

"I still wonder," she replied vaguely. Sherlock gave her a quizzical look. "What do you wonder?"

"...how you can be such an intelligent man and at the same time not understand that of which I am capable." She reached for his cheek and touched it gently. "I _could_ snap my fingers and turn that devil into a frog if I wanted to. You'll see."


	7. Turning Tables

Mycroft had left his pocket-watch inside the office for the night. "Just wait here," he'd instructed his prisoners, "and listen to the 'tick-tock, tick-tock'. Before you know it, James Moriarty will be here."

It was now morning. The Woman's upper body rested on Sherlock's lap, and as for him… Well, now he understood the horrors of sleeping whilst sitting up.

Not to forget that these two soon-to-be-marrieds were still handcuffed, chained to their seats, and ravenous.

Irene pushed herself up from Sherlock's (albeit comfortable) lap. "Wake up, darling," she whispered. "We have to be ready for James. I'm sure he'll chastise us for looking so dreary."

The consulting detective hadn't heard her. The Woman leaned forward in an attempt to gloss her lips over his, but her chair fell forward with her. "What the _hell?"_ bellowed Sherlock, as his fiancé had grabbed onto his shoulders in panic. "I'm so sorry," she quickly apologised. He latched onto the arms that braced him and helped her back into her place.

"Promise not to startle me like that once we're married," pleaded Sherlock. He yawned groggily and rubbed his eyes; Irene chuckled at his mannerisms.

"You truly _are_ adorable when you're tired. Seems as if everything intimidating about you just flies away."

"I _can_ be intimidating if you'd prefer, Irene," started the man, "and I'll _definitely_ be annoying, if Mycroft Holmes doesn't get in here right now!"

"My dear, did he not make it clear last night? James Moriarty will be here soon to insure that we're locked up. Mycroft is finished with us."

"Then why the hell does he want to contain us in his warehouse?"

The Woman fiddled with her handcuffs. "He's a strange man_,_ Sherlock; I don't know. Let me try to get my phone." She'd kept it in her left pant-pocket, knowing that the location would matter once she'd been chained. Irene twisted her hands in multiple ways for experimentation. Sherlock told her, "You can't get it on your own; let me help."

She ignored him and persisted with manoeuvring her hands. Finally she'd inched her fingers closer to the phone, and instantly she secured the device in her grip. "Ah," she exhaled, "you just have to trust me, see?"

"What now?" Sherlock wondered, staring dumbly at the camera phone. _Moriarty's not likely to let us out alive,_ he mused sarcastically. _This phone is our only escape route._ "Are you going to call John?"

"No. I'm going to be more like you." She'd announced it with a pride that both annoyed and stimulated Sherlock. "What does that mean?" he wondered. She only grinned and dialed a number on the phone. Irene made sure to put the receiving end on the "speaker" setting.

"Hello, Mycroft Holmes? It's Irene Adler - oh! and your little brother Sherlock is here too. We don't understand: are you coming for us?"

"_What?"_ was the exasperated response. "I don't…what on earth are you talking about?"

"But Mr. Moriarty did not inform you?" questioned Irene, her pretend voice of surprise putting Sherlock to tears of laughter. "He's already come; apparently he wanted your temporary alliance, and nothing more."

Irene almost dropped the phone when she detected swearing from the other end of the line. "How can this be? No, I should ask first: can I even _trust_ you and Sherlock?"

"Of course you can, and you must," replied Irene with fake sombreness in her voice. "Because Moriarty's made plans to blow this warehouse down by noon."

"Brother, forget our differences!" shouted Sherlock from his seat beside Irene. The phone did not respond immediately, but eventually there was a consensus. "Fine," muttered Mycroft, beside himself with bewilderment. "But you'll both stay tight under my grip for quite some time."

"Hurry," prompted The Woman, now hoping against all odds that Moriarty would arrive later rather than sooner. _We must maintain the illusion,_ she reasoned. _Moriarty is, to Mycroft, now an enemy. And it must remain that way._

In no time the cellular connection had disengaged itself from the camera phone in Irene's petite, chained-up hands. She sighed and looked at her fiancée nervously. "That went well, but I'm not so certain that everything else will."

He smirked. "You don't realise what trouble we'll get into if Mycroft finds out. My guess is that Moriarty will only want to terminate us sooner now."

Pursing her lips whilst staring down at the dirty-grey carpet, Irene pondered Sherlock's prediction. "I only hope that Detective Inspector Lestrade has a handle on the city."

"I wouldn't count on it," thought the other aloud. "Lestrade's a funny man. He's nice, but I seldom approve of his methods for execution. He should retire."

"You're being too arrogant," commented The Woman. She watched as the consulting detective's face transformed into a guilty sadness. "Don't worry," she assured him, "we've all got our weak spots. I just hope -"

She jumped. The office door had bolted open - seemingly of its own accord - and a mere voice echoed through the hallway and into the prisoners' lair. "Hope. Hope for what: peace? Ah, what a funny little word for a woman with so little _fear._ How's it going, Irene?"

James Moriarty peeked his head shyly in the doorframe and tiptoed inside with mock-innocence. "Oh dear, I hope I'm not interrupting. 'The Woman' and 'The Man'…the only man I ever _fancied…"_ He gritted his teeth and growled of his own volition at Sherlock. "Nice to see _you_ at your wit's end. So recent it feels when the coin had been flipped…"

"Wonderful to see you, James," announced Sherlock casually. "Staying _alive?_ Well, the tune suits you fine, but - if I remember correctly - we've both been 'staying alive'." Irene held her breath as Moriarty's cheeks flushed a crimson colour. The consulting criminal and consulting detective held their gazes upon one another; meanwhile Moriarty inched closer to the one female in the room.

"I truly do congratulate you," he told Sherlock, still eye-to-eye with the other man, "and I think to myself how _perfect_ you two would have been together. Of course I have my share of feelings for you, too, Sherlock."

Moriarty's adversary would not blink. "How did you do it? Come on, you've nothing to lose; Irene and I are dead to you, anyway."

"Why does it concern _you?"_ Moriarty glared at them, though he neither Irene nor Sherlock could take seriously at the present.

Perhaps that was a bad thing, because their guest took offense and repeated with an intimidating scowl, "Why does it _concern_ you?" Sherlock popped back into good posture, his back straightening immediately once Moriarty stuck his face centimetres away from his own.

"James," Irene piped up, "it's no secret that you've more stealth and power than anyone can fathom. What we wonder is why you bother to make trouble - devastating trouble - for innocent people?"

"Irene," interrupted Sherlock, "Moriarty here doesn't care about innocent people; _that's_ why he uses them…to reach me."

The consulting criminal grinned maliciously. "If I do say so, Sherlock, you catch on pretty fast. How many months did it take - or should I say _years?"_

"Shut up," admonished Sherlock sternly. "You've no good reason to still be alive, so I suggest you keep quiet unless Irene or I ask you to talk. Now, where were we? Ah! yes: the whole occasion for which The Woman and I find ourselves chained to chairs like disobedient children in a military academy."

Moriarty whined: "Honestly, Sherlock, do you ever _accept_ things how they appear? It's truly a part of the fun, to keep you clueless and thirsty for more information. Sometimes I even worry that you're too caught-up in the process and forget the results… But, then again, I thrive on that shortcoming of yours." Before proceeding he flashed both of the prisoners his wickedest smile. "I like a good mystery, don't get me wrong. But it's _much_ more fun to watch idiots like _you_ solve the damned things!"

Irene sank in her seat - gradually, of course, so as not to evoke the attention of their adversary - and studied the countenance of her only hope: Sherlock. _There's nothing I can do,_ thought she in dismay. _We're going to sit here while London falls, all because of me._ "What do you want from me, James?" asked she. Sherlock turned, aghast by the presence of her weary voice.

"Aha!" interjected Moriarty gleefully, cocking his head to stare directly into Irene's worn blue eyes. "I was beginning to doubt that you'd figure it out!" His eyes twinkled, and The Woman felt that she'd never felt so frightened in her life. _I know what he wants, and I fear he'll get it from me._

Meanwhile Sherlock was oblivious to the conversation that took place before him. "Irene, tell me what he means. Now."

"Patience, Sherlock, patience," Moriarty uttered, each word diminishing in volume. He retrieved a set of silver keys from his pant-pocket and supported The Woman's cuffed hands with his free ones. "Savor every moment you have in this room together, Sherlock," Moriarty began, "because they will most certainly be your last ones. Irene Adler has submitted to my authority - which is exactly what I'd planned -"

"No, she'd never," blurted Sherlock doubtingly. His eyebrows furrowed when he stared at his fiancé with desperation for a wink, a smile, _something_ that could signal the negation of their enemy's unbelievable statement. But none appeared; and it was when The Woman spoke the following words that Sherlock believed the world would end:

"It was a bargain, Sherlock. I'm so sorry."

He fell unconscious for the slightest second. _Have I been hit in the face?_ wondered he, aching for reassurance that he had not just heard those words from his lovely Irene. _My Irene, _he thought. _She's mine. I would have known if she'd been faking it. She loves me. The Woman truly loves me, Sherlock Holmes, The Man who'd never known love on his own…_ All this was too much for the fallen young man, and Moriarty chuckled all the while.

"Funny how the brain works, isn't it, Sherlock?" Irene glared at her new authority, knowing too well how much agony Sherlock Holmes was feeling.

Because she felt it too.

"I _do _love him," she told Moriarty whilst the afflicted man in chains wilted on the spot. "It wasn't supposed to end up that way, I know. But -"

"The bargain, Irene," reminded a stern James Moriarty. He kicked Sherlock's limp leg and returned his gaze to The Woman. "All I wanted was Sherlock Holmes at my disposal. You did your job; you put him in a trance. I daresay an artful one…"

"I've changed my mind about this," she confessed all the more. "I hate your schemes because I love Sherlock Holmes. He's not the threat here; you are."

Not until Irene had called her master out in this way did James Moriarty begin to worry. "He's not _yours._ Everything we agreed upon - faking interest in Sherlock, plotting that silly plan to catch me, bringing silly Mycroft Holmes into the role-playing with you - they were all _my_ ways, not yours. I own everything, and you…well, now that you've disobeyed me, you've got nothing."

"Fine!" exclaimed Irene, thrashing her camera phone against the office desk. It shattered immediately into four stubborn pieces; and, dissatisfied with the break, she threw it to the ground. "Take everything but him. I've given you all you could ever want, James. _Why_ do you need Sherlock?"

"Oh, Irene, Irene," he chastised her evilly, "you always seem to forget: I'm a psychopath, much u_nlike_ your friend here. You're not getting him, because he's _my_ toy. Not yours."

Before Irene had the chance to retort, a new voice freshened the dull atmosphere. "Well, well, well. I _do_ admit to feeling quite inferior when three dead people breathe in the air surrounding me, but Irene…did you think you could fool me?"

"Why is he here?" spat Moriarty, infuriated by the annoying presence of yet another Holmes. The Woman smiled genially at Mycroft, who stared at his blacked-out brother with half-amazement and half-frustration. "What has happened to Sherlock?"

"Good morning, Mycroft," greeted Irene. _"He_ has fooled you, yes -" she turned to the confessed-psychopath with energy and enthusiasm (she'd practically forgotten about her escape plan, and that was Mycroft's conveniently inconvenient interruption). "-but _I…_ I have fooled _him."_


	8. Always Stand By Me

p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Moriarty found himself speechless. His eyes wandered about the room, unsure whether he would criticise Mycroft Holmes' untimely entrance or "pound" Irene Adler to the ground for her (could it be?) betrayal. "Let us all take a step backward," he reasoned slowly./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Naturally, Sherlock and Mycroft obeyed the man with literal motion backward. The Woman pursed her lips; difficult it was for her not to react to the brothers' humouring of Moriarty's instruction./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"James Moriarty felt that his efforts to reclaim control were failing, yielding his usually pale complexion rather red. "I don't think you all understand the danger you've run into. Irene, you're a dead woman to this world. Don't think for a moment that I'll happily keep your secret if you betray me."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""But I already have, James," countered The Woman./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Suddenly Moriarty whipped out a knife from his jacket-pocket. Snarling, "Don't you dare cross me further!", the psychopath jerked the weapon to Irene's chest. "No!" shouted Sherlock. Mycroft merely stood in his place underneath the doorframe, appalled./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Panting though he was full of energy, their predator held his sharp tool in place below The Woman's neck. "Whoa, now," he exclaimed, "no one has to get all emupset!/em Mr. Holmes, I need your love-struck brother and his fiancé... You wouldn't mind me emborrowing/em them...?" Moriarty had regained the magic of his art-of-intrigue. Sherlock had - within the past few seconds of staring dumbly at Irene - come to her side, placing his hand in front of the knife so as to block her from its malicious blade. "Mycroft isn't selling us today, James. In fact, you're going to have yourself a lot busier... Mycroft, are they coming?"/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Sherlock's brother turned with an alarmed countenance. "What? Who are emthey?"/em/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""The police, of course," Irene chimed in. Moriarty held the knife even now; not even such a threat as the authorities could cripple his tact./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""Oh, come on, Sherlock, you can't think I've no resistance against the police." The man's lips curled into a smile and he proceeded: "This world is not made of two kinds of people, but one. One that is very easily manipulated into doing the bidding of anyone with money... One that can appear 'good' for years, but then suddenly turns on you. And that...emthat/em is precisely the trick of my trade." He inched the knife away from Irene, as if she were watching an object repel her in slow-motion. "I'm sorry you all haven't the brains to understand just exactly what happens now...but then again, it's so much emfun/em to stare at your awed faces."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"They all turned when someone had rapped on the door. "Come in," welcomed Moriarty, "and thank you for being so polite...Detective Inspector Lestrade."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""What?" Sherlock blurted. Soon there were several darkly-attired policemen surrounding him, Mycroft, and Irene. Greg Lestrade was the last to enter, and he couldn't have looked more miserable. "At your service, Mr. Moriarty." Lestrade purposely avoided Sherlock's eyes. emHe's hiding something, I can tell,/em thought the consulting detective./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""Hello, Detective Inspector; to whom do we owe this pleasure?" Sherlock wasn't completely convinced that this man was an ally, but hope surged through his body. "I see you've brought your squadron to collect the infamous James Moriarty. How nice."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Irene - being so unused to the massive amount of people in so little a room - had begun to experience absolute panic. "Sherlock, they're not with us," she confessed. "Mycroft ordered them here. I would know."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""Irene, clearly you have been diluted by the impurities of Moriarty's art, since now it seems that you don't believe me when I tell you that Lestrade is on our side."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"But whose side are emyou/em on?" wondered he, pointing his index finger at his big brother. Mycroft shrugged and answered truthfully, "I'm neutral. I don't particularly want to help you, but I'm not ready to submit to James here." He frowned for a long time at Moriarty. "How dare you intrude my property! I thought we'd been clear on the guidelines of our agreement -"/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""Oh, dear," Moriarty fake-sighed. "Must we go over this emagain?"/em/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""No, James, but I want to know exactly how you've figured Lestrade and the police are on your side," demanded Sherlock severely. To The Woman he instructed, "Stand by me. Who knows what these lunatics have planned for us." Retaining eye-contact with the psychopath, Sherlock extended his arm to protect Irene as she neared her fiancée. He squeezed her hand once she'd positioned herself adjacent to his body. "I love you," he confessed./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""Ugh," spat Mycroft, who had now his own band of policemen surrounding him. Lestrade approached Moriarty with an ultimatum: "According to the agreement, we'd like to publicly display the insurrectionists before they are shot to death. In doing such, we require that you are restrained until the end of public scorn." The Detective Inspector still had his back to Sherlock and Irene./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Mycroft complained: "I certainly hope you've not included emme/em in all of this; especially when I've done nothing questionable... Mr. Moriarty...?"/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"But Moriarty's mind was set on Lestrade's comment. "Restraint, you say? Do you mean handcuffs, good man? Because I can assure you -" he pointed to all the policemen in the room - "that they are emnot/em going to do as you ask."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""That's not possible," argued Lestrade. "My men follow my instructions, and not yours. Now, if you'll remain still..." He gestured to one of his men to bring forth the handcuffs. Moriarty moved away, grinning./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""Detective Inspector, I don't believe you were here when I taught a lesson on morality. No, you were not; but it won't take long to explain. You see, there -"/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""Sherlock!" shouted a voice from outside the room. emJohn!/em realised the consulting detective. Moriarty averted his gaze from Irene to the doorframe. His eyes met the mouth of a gun./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""Dr. John Watson at your service," announced the newcomer. Sherlock exhaled in relief; emGood, this is all part of the plan!/em The Woman pressed her hand against her fiancèe's arm, trying to signal that they would do their best to make a run for it. Sherlock looked at Irene with confusion. emWhat?/em he tried to communicate. She rolled her eyes and took control of the situation:/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""James, what if we told you that people emare/em naturally good? What if everyone in this room were perfectly decent people, and what if they're all playing a trick on you?"/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"The dialogue intensified: "Ah, but they aren't on emyour/em side, either, Irene. And Sherlock? well, perhaps John emthought/em he was doing good; but Detective Inspector Lestrade promised your deaths to this country. And in order to do that, he called me." The devil sneered at Sherlock, whose countenance had turned pale upon noticing Greg's face: it affirmed the assertion./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Mycroft had grown anxious over the course of several minutes. "What on earth am emI /emdoing here, then? Take my ridiculous brother for all I care; but I want all of you emout/em of this room, and off of my land!"/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "No one's dying today. No, James, not even you. Because it's not always about death, you see. The three of us - you, The Woman, me - we've all been 'dead' at some point in time. Therefore, since you have already died to the world, killing you now wouldn't be deemed legitimate." Sherlock Holmes shot his arm in a salute, and John's gun fired./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Moriarty ducked, seeming as if he'd predicted the action. One of Lestrade's men toppled over another, dead as the cold silence that followed. Irene's heart leapt violently into her throat, and she almost gasped. John was motionless./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""How does it feel, Mr. Watson, to have killed an innocent man?" Moriarty's voice smelt of intoxicating happiness. "Doesn't it feel...emsensational?"/em/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Lestrade was, at this point, decided on where his loyalties lay. "That's it," he shouted, hurrying over to the fallen man. He leant down with several other police to examine the body. "John Watson," he yelled, "you will not be charged with murder; emhe/em will." James Moriarty beamed at this, whereupon he started toward the door with extended arms./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"John avoided the attempted embrace - and James Moriarty truly did look insane, so it was better not to remain in the man's path - whilst Sherlock and Irene stared at one another gravely./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""This might be the end of us," confessed Irene. They heard Moriarty's cheery vocalisation from the hallway, and its intensity died down after seconds. John reported that the psychopath had exited through the downstairs front-door./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""We're not going to die, Irene," Sherlock assured The Woman boldly. "Of course Moriarty's sure to have more in store concerning destruction - and he'll probably try to get his hands on us soon - but we're not -"/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""No, I mean that this is the end of emus."/em The emphasis Irene put on that last precious word saddened Sherlock. His entire countenance sank. "It can't be," he whispered./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"John, meanwhile, had his head against the wall; he could not process the reality of his deed, and yet it rung in his ears with a mocking tone: emYou have taken an innocent life. You have freed a guilty man./em "Damn this!" interjected he, slamming his fist against the door-frame's interior./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Sherlock knew he needed to reassure his friend that nothing was John's fault, but his hands could not leave The Woman's arms. She gazed upon him with such longing - with such sadness - that the hard, usually unemotional man could not stop the tears from forming. "You're wrong, Irene. This isn't the end of emus./em We're fine, we'll life in America if we have to -"/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""I'm sorry, but we can't," Irene explained; "I have betrayed you, Sherlock. Don't you forget that. I'm as worthy of you as -"/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""You're the only person who understands my wretched insolence! How can you leave me, Irene, when I emwant/em you to stay? I've forgiven you, for goodness' sake!" Sherlock paced the room, uncaring of Lestrade's efforts to care for the bloody body. Not even despairing John mattered to the man at that moment; he emneeded/em Irene. He required her./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""I love you, my dear, truly -" The Woman's eyes followed Sherlock's moving body as it trudged through the room. Some of the policemen were now beginning to worry about him./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);""Sir, we're going to need everyone to exit the building. Sir," persisted one officer, "we have men outside the warehouse who are tracking Moriarty."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Mycroft, who had thus far been entranced by the transformation of his low-key office, groaned excessively. "Why, oh emwhy,/em are the authorities surrounding my property? Tell them to leave at once! Brother, you will stay. Miss Adler, I advise you leave before Shelock restrains you physically. That would not be pleasant, I can assure you."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"But The Woman grinned at her fiancèe. "Mr. Holmes, are you so tired-out by the events that have transpired that you cannot tell when I am acting?" She brought Sherlock's head closer to hers and smacked a kiss on his lips. "Let's get out of here. And we must bring John; you're going to get me in trouble by Mary if he doesn't come too."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"In short, Sherlock had no words. He simply obeyed, continued to remember the scent of Irene's parched yet precious lips, and saluted Detective Inspector Lestrade. "Come, John," he called to his friend, who still could not bring his face away from the dullness of the white-painted doorframe./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Irene rolled her eyes. "John, Mary's in labour. We have to hurry to the hospital!"/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"This snapped Dr. Watson out of his trance. Instantly the man's entire world spun round, and excitement became the driving factor of his interest in the present time. "Is she really? Well, come on then! Oh, no, she's probably wondering where I am..."/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"John continued like this all through the car ride to the hospital./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Why had they gone to the hospital?/span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Mary emwas/em in labour; and they had The Woman's emreal, /emundamaged camera phone to thank for that information./span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"How convenient everything had turned out.../span/p  
p style="max-height: 999999px;"span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"Sherlock and Irene were married a week later./span/p 


	9. EPILOGUE

London didn't appear as if it had just been in jeopardy. James Moriarty had returned to mean (to the general public) a figure of the past, almost imaginary. Even Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had to wonder whether he'd dreamt a nightmare last week.

But the real dream was upon Sherlock Holmes' eyes: as he rested in the confines of his pal John Watson's sofa, he wiggled the finger that boasted his dazzling bronze ring. "How on earth did I manage to let myself do this?" mumbled he.

His wife returned from the Watson family's kitchen and nudged his back from behind the sofa. "I can't tell you, darling. It surprises me just as much, that you've agreed to such a commitment so soon. But I dare not question you." Grinning behind her husband, The Woman bent her head down low to whisper into his ear. "Because I hope you were telling the truth at the altar when you said -"

"Of course I love you," Sherlock cut in, his compelling alto voice sending shivers down Irene's spine. Her heart warmed at their closeness, but all snapped back to normal when-

"Sherlock! I thought I told you to rock her to sleep, not leave her in her play-chair!" Tired father though he was, John Watson looked more alive than he'd done a week previous. The shock following his accidental shooting at the policeman had shaken him up - even whilst his wife had handed him their newborn daughter in the hospital - but the man's strength and motivation to become a good father now rendered him high-spirited and energised. "I'm waiting," he urged, whilst Irene drew away from her lazy husband and gestured toward the baby's nursery.

Sherlock got up from the sofa almost as if Mycroft had asked him to scrub the dishes. "Honestly, John, I don't understand why someone has to rock a child to sleep. They're bound to be annoyed by anyone who tries to get their dirty hands on th -"

"That'll be enough, Sherlock," admonished a motherly voice from the adjacent room. Mary Watson entered into the living-room with her hands crossed and her eyes stern. "You _will_ rock the baby to sleep, because you promised, remember?"

"Yes, but that was -"

"Completely your idea, dear," Irene chimed in. Turning to her good friend, she apologised, "I'm afraid Sherlock's memory has vanished. Ever since you and John brought home the baby, he's been so curious about -"

"That's enough, Irene," interrupted the consulting detective hurriedly. He'd wanted to keep his unusual softness about children to himself and The Woman (and he even wished she were clueless, but his wife had grown apt at reading his mannerisms. "Now, where were we?" Sherlock looked to John, whose pursed lips held back a nasty burst of laughter.

John soon let it out. "What?" Sherlock asked, not quite understanding his friend's humour. "I'll go and hush Lily to sleep, all right? Nothing to worry about." Irene chuckled a bit as he passed her by and rushed into the hallway. "Sherlock Holmes...embarrassed," laughed she.

In too short a time, Sherlock returned; but he was not alone. "Oh, what have you done now?" sighed Mary, reaching out to take the baby from Sherlock's uncomfortable arms.

"She would not stop looking at me," admitted the other, making eye contact with Irene and John whilst he spoke. They merely stared at him, whereupon he persisted, "A child of that age should not even care to focus on something as dull as my face? Do children now _learn_ these things from their genetic codes?"

"No," Irene negated, shaking her head firmly. "Darling, you're overanalysing poor little Lily!"

"Lily's just observing, Sherlock," explained John; he'd attempted his kindest tone of voice, but the consulting detective took offence.

"Do you think I'm out of my mind?" countered Sherlock. "You three think I've lost my usual characteristics since the birth and the wedding, but don't worry: I'm still here." He pointed to his head; John and Irene exploded with laughter.

Mary managed to hush them as she gently rocked her daughter in her arms. "Now, now," she whispered, "the baby's trying to fall asleep. We can all talk about Sherlock's misalignment of mind and actions over cups of coffee..._later._ Right now - John, can you come with me?" She beckoned for her husband to follow her back through the hallway and into the newborn's nursery. John saluted to Irene and Sherlock with a grin and the giddy remark, "I'm a dad!"

"Congratulations," muttered Sherlock long after his friend had exited the living-room. The Woman stared curiously at him from the opposite corner of the room, seemingly wanting of his touch. Sherlock obligingly proceeded to fulfil her desire, planting a kiss on her cheek once he'd drawn near her.

Irene inhaled expressively after experiencing Sherlock's lips on her skin. "I've almost forgotten how lovely that feels," she softly remarked. Her husband lifted her chin and smiled.

"Do you mean to say that I should do that more often?"

"Not _just_ that, but yes," The Woman replied. Sherlock kissed her on the forehead, lingering there for seconds. Once he'd withdrawn, he observed her puzzled countenance. "How's that?"

"Not quite what I expected, Mr. Holmes. But satisfactory, nevertheless."

An unfamiliar energy within Sherlock suddenly pulsated through his body. "Well, Mrs. Holmes, I think you should describe to me exactly what you _do_ expect." He gazed into her azure eyes, sternly first. But The Woman only beamed at him. Sherlock whispered, "What is it, then?"

"What I want," breathed she, her heart beating like a drum in her chest. She dared to brush her lips against - but not to fully press them upon - Sherlock's own lips; the more she took her time, the harder it became for her adorable husband to contain himself. "I would _love_," she finally proceeded, "if you and I..."

Their conversation was interrupted by the slightest whimper of Baby Lily in the nursery. Irene could detect the voices of John and Mary, hushing and singing to the child. "That," stated The Woman. She uttered nothing more.

"Yes?" prompted Sherlock, not predicting the significance of his wife's mention of John, Mary, and the baby. "What about them? They'll be back soon. Is _that_ what you want: to have them back in the room, so that you don't have to wait with me awkwardly -"

"My dear, not at all!" exclaimed Irene, humouring his inability to comprehend that which she thought to be rather obvious. "I want _that_," she verified. "What they have...I want us to have our own version of it. A family, Sherlock." She frowned at his opaque facial expression. "Do you remember what _family_ is?"

Suddenly the consulting detective snapped out of it. "What? Oh, well, I had quite a horrid childhood experience. And my family is not as close as it used to be, especially since all the good ones have died. But you were...?" He halted in his nonsensical speech when he spotted the reflections of two liquid drops on his wife's face. "Irene?" he whispered.

To his instant relief, she laughed. "Will we have one, then? A family? I don't know what you think of it, but you have quite a lot to impart about it." She wrapped her hands round his arms, slowly bringing them to her cheeks. "Please say yes, Sherlock."

It dawned on Sherlock Holmes that he was staring face-to-face with his future: _literally, this woman - The Woman - will be with me for the rest of my life,_ thought he. With only moments to compile both the courage and the words to speak, he thought quickly and cleared his throat. "Can we make one thing clear, before anything happens?" he questioned. His other half chuckled and nodded.

"All right: we must be sure that - should we welcome children of our own into this strange world - we do not teach them how to be like us. I know every other parent on the planet would decide on the opposite, my darling... But you understand, don't you?" He grinned childishly at her, yielding an equally interesting smile from her.

"I understand beautifully," responded The Woman in sweet sincerity, leaning eagerly forward to receive her husband's welcoming lips.

* * *

THE FINAL END


End file.
